The Queen's Plate
by espark
Summary: A series of stories from the point of view of three female characters in Murdoch Mysteries - Julia Odgen, Ruby Odgen and Emily Grace. The three installments revolve around suspicious circumstances at the longest running horse race in North America - The Queen's Plate.
1. Chapter 1

This first installment is from Julia Ogden's point of view. The setting is Toronto, 1896 (Murdoch Mysteries Season 2).

I stepped into my empty morgue and breathed in the peace and quiet. My glance passed over the test tube racks, the microscopes, the equipment cupboards and settled on the bare examining table. Satisfaction curled into my soul. Finally, I had no crime scenes to visit, no bodies to autopsy, no reports to write. About time. It had been months since I'd had an undemanding day at work and I was looking forward to plunging into the stack of medical journals waiting on my desk. I passed through the main morgue to my office, trading the clinical smells of antiseptic, rubber, and formaldehyde for the calmer scents of paper, ink and wood.

Settling myself at my desk, I picked up the latest edition of the Buffalo Medical Journal. Work had been relentless and I certainly deserved the opportunity to luxuriate in the latest science. I had just finished, 'Modern Gastronomy for Stricture of the Esophagus' and was about to start 'Involuntary Intoxication from a Medico-Legal Standpoint,' when a thought struck me. William would love to hear about this article. Perhaps I could tempt him with a stroll to discuss it, or even lunch? As if conjured by my very thoughts, Detective William Murdoch entered the morgue.

"Good morning, Julia," William called out pleasantly and I walked over to greet him.

"Hello, William," He looked just like a trifle, beautifully composed and delicious. "I was just thinking about you." I said mischievously.

"Oh really?" He answered warmly. When it was just the two of us, he let some of his formality soften and the man might actually flirt, if subtly.

I played along, looking down, embarrassed, but still smiling deviously, "I came across a fascinating article you'd be interested in, on the medical-legal perspective of involuntary intoxication."

William's eyes lit up, "That _does_ sound interesting. We must take the time to discuss it properly."

I said nothing but nodded encouraging. If he didn't ask me to lunch then I'd suggest a stroll through the park. The space between us filled with my expectation.

"Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?" He asked. I caught the eagerness in his voice and he added more somberly, "to discuss the article."

I wanted to jump for joy, but settled on a bright smile, "Yes, that would be lovely."

He looked at me intently, our eyes locked together and I felt an invisible pull, tugging me towards him. The moment stretched into a beautiful, aching silence, until I wanted to throw my arms around him and kiss him wickedly. Instead, I forced my gaze away and asked professionally, "Was there something you wanted to see me about?"

Blinking the daze out of his eyes, William handed me a file. "Yes, a disputed case from Station House No 5's district. Apparently, a cook at the Ontario Jockey Club was found dead, but Inspector Davis doesn't feel it warrants a criminal investigation. However, the deceased's husband is insisting on an inquest and autopsy. Inspector Brackenreid couldn't help but take the bereaved man's side against Davis. He also knew you didn't have any cases at the moment, and took the liberty of boasting that you would most definitely find grounds for a criminal investigation in your examination."

I sighed, having no choice but to accept the file. "Of course, I'll examine the body, but I can't make any promises about proving Inspect Davis wrong." I reassured myself that at least there would be time to read the article before this new body arrived.

"Excuse me Dr. Ogden. An urgent message came from Dr. Fields, the provincial coroner." Hodge said as he handed me a note.

Turning my attention to this new matter, I put the file down and scanned the message.

I said to William, "He wants me to pull an autopsy file from three years ago. He needs the information today so the local magistrate can keep their suspect in custody." I was not fond of the provincial coroner. Dr. Fields was an antiquated physician who did not hold with females in the profession.

William nodded, "You should go find that file. I'll speak with you about the case later, Dr. Ogden."

I looked longingly at the open Buffalo Medical Journal on my desk. But no. I told myself the request shouldn't take overly long and I would not lend Dr. Fields any credence to his claims that women doctors were not professional. The article I'd just enticed William with would have to wait.

It took me a quarter of an hour to find and methodically review the file in question. Nothing seemed amiss in the autopsy or my report. I became puzzled as to what Dr. Field might be looking for, but felt confident with my work. Unfortunately, when I telephoned the provincial medical office, Dr. Fields was absent. Getting no helpful information from his assistant, I squashed my irritation and settled for leaving a message.

I sat back in my chair and turned my attention back to the article I needed to study before dinner. I began to read, 'Alcoholic excesses, when once established, may be classed into three divisions …"

"Dr. Ogden!" Constable Crabtree burst through the door, frantic. "Come quick, Henry's bleeding all over the place!"

I rushed to follow Crabtree, grabbing my medical bag. "What happened?" I asked. Perhaps a suspect had become violent or there had been a skirmish in the cells.

Crabtree professed, "It was an accident. I swear!" I should have known.

Presently, inside Station House No. 4, I found Inspector Brackenreid shouting at a cluster of constables, "Give the man some space! Bloody Hell. It's like you're a bunch of soft hearted old biddies. Haven't you ever seen a bloody nose before? Back to work, all of ya!" The inspector's fury had been loosed and he looked even more ruddy than usual. As soon as he saw me, his mood softened and he looked relieved, "Ah, Dr. Ogden, good. Will you tend to Higgins? It seems he and Crabtree were having a bit of fun and Higgins got his face smashed with a ledger."

Constable Higgins was holding a handkerchief to his face, but blood was still seeping down the front of his uniform. I was relieved to see that his injury wasn't life-threatening.

Crabtree pleaded, "I didn't mean to hurt anyone. Honest!"

Higgins spoke up, his voice pinched, "George was trying to demonstrate the telephonic abilities of Venutians."

Crabtree corrected his friend, " _Telekinetic_ Henry, not _telephonic._ Telekinesis is the ability to move objects with one's mind." Then he scoffed, "It's not like Venutians can call Earth on the telephone, now can they?"

Their foolishness reassured me as much as the findings of my physical exam. Higgins would be fine. I bandaged his nose while Crabtree hovered anxiously nearby.

I told Brackenreid, "I recommend Constable Higgins go see a colleague of mine, Dr. Westmoreland. Higgins's nose may be broken and it is best to get it set right away."

Inspector Brackenreid agreed to send Higgins for treatment immediately and Crabtree insisted on accompanying his friend. Even though Higgins had no trouble walking, Crabtree kept one arm around Higgins' shoulders protectively as they left the station.

As I closed my medical bag, Brackenreid said, "Oh, Dr. Ogden, did Murdoch mention the case from Station No. 5? That I'd agreed to have you perform an autopsy to prove Davis wrong?"

I hesitated and tried to think how I could tactfully remove myself from their feud. "Inspector, you know I can't promise …"

Brackenreid cut me off, "I know it's an unusual request. And believe me, I don't want to ask you to be unprofessional. But I get the feeling that Davis's been shirking his duties. Only last week, a couple of trainers at the Woodbine racetrack got trampled by thoroughbreds, poor sods. Davis didn't call for an investigation. He just dismissed the whole thing as an unfortunate accident. Sounds like poor police work if you ask me."

He must have seen that I wasn't convinced and hurried on "It's a strange case. No obvious cause of death. Woman was found dead in the Jockey Club kitchen. " He grinned and rubbed his hands together, "I assured Inspector Davis you'd sort it out. We'll show him how a real constabulary operates."

When I returned to the morgue, the cook's body was being moved to my exam table. I had just started the dissection, when the phone rang in my office. Not wanting to miss the call from the provincial coroner, I set down my instruments and raced to answer the telephone

"Hello, Julia?" My spirit sank. It was my sister.

"Hello Ruby," She never failed to surprise me, "I didn't realize you were in town."

"Yes, I'm working on an exposé about the Queen's Plate. Did you know that Seagram stables has won five years in a row? I suspect something underhanded." I remembered what Brackenreid had said about the suspicious deaths at the racetrack. An image of my sister's crumpled body under the hooves of a prized thoroughbred flashed through my head.

"Be safe, Ruby." I advised. "The Woodbine Raceway isn't exactly polite society." The moment I said it, I knew it was a mistake. Telling her to be cautious was like throwing fuel on a fire.

She answered defiantly, "I know how to handle myself Jules. You needn't fret about me." Then her tone softened, "Although if it makes you feel better, you can accompany me to the track tonight."

"I'm afraid I already have plans for this evening," I said firmly.

"Don't tell me you're attending some stuffy scientific lecture," she teased.

"No, nothing like that. Look, Ruby, I have quite a bit of work and ..."

"Oh is it with that sober detective? Murdoch?" I didn't answer quickly enough and she pounced, "It _is_ with Detective Murdoch! Wonderful."

"Ruby, Detective Murdoch and I, we ..." I protested weakly and trailed off.

"It is settled then. Promise me you'll come with me racetrack on Sunday and you can tell me all about it."

She rung off and I returned to the body on my exam table. At first, the autopsy seemed straightforward until I opened up the thoracic cavity and made an unexpected discovery. Now this _was_ interesting. I was actually glad that Inspector Brackenreid had accepted this body for me to examine. I decided to forgo lunch and was just about to make an impression of the fatal wound, when Constable Hodge came to the door again.

He said "Dr. Fields is on the line asking for that information from that autopsy. He says he needs it immediately."

Frustration boiled inside me. I couldn't pause my autopsy now or the media would prematurely harden and I'd have to start the impression all over again.

"Tell him I'll call him in five minutes." I snapped.

After the impression was set, I rushed to call Dr Fields and answer his questions. Irritatingly, the coroner only wanted to know if I had examined the victim's mouth and determined if he had a full set of teeth. I was flabbergasted. That was all? Couldn't he have said so in his message? Somehow, this proved the twin brother was lying about his alibi - something involving false teeth. Dr. Fields droned on, lecturing me about the merits proper autopsy protocol. I held my tongue and listened politely.

My attention drifted to the unread medical journal at my desk. What if I didn't get a chance to read the article? What if I wasn't able to talk about it with William? Would I have to cancel our dinner plans? Not wanting to disappoint William, I rang off as quickly as I could and began reading again.

I only got a paragraph into the article on involuntary intoxication before another knock sounded at my door. I couldn't believe it. Another interruption!

"Enough is enough!" I cried and slapped the journal down on my desk.

"Julia?" a familiar voice asked tentatively. I looked up to see William looking pained, like I just struck him with some Venusian telekinesis.

Exasperated and embarrassed, I sighed, "I'm sorry William, but this day has been maddening. I thought that, for the first time in months, I finally had an empty morgue and I'd hoped I might have a quiet day to read through my medical journals, but every time I think I can sit down at my desk and have a moment to read I get interrupted either by the provincial coroner or Constable Crabtree or my sister..." I stopped abruptly, realizing I was rambling.

William's stunned silence made me take a deep breath and start again, more calmly, "I'll be alright, it's just been a trying day."

William took a long slow breath and I could tell he was trying to figure out what to say, when his eyes caught the body from Station House 5. His face lit up, "Is this the new case? Have you found the cause of death?"

Grateful for the change of subject, I answered excitedly, "Yes. Actually, it's an interesting case. The victim had an unusual physiological condition. I'd only ever read about it in anatomy textbooks."

William's enthusiasm reflected my own, "Oh?"

"Yes, dextrocardia!" I excitedly pulled back the sheet to show the dead woman's open thoracic cavity. "It is a rare birth defect. Perhaps only one in ten thousand people have it, although most live their whole lives without any symptoms at all." Warming to my topic and goaded on by William's interest, I continued, "I found a small incision in the right chest wall and significant bleeding into the thoracic cavity. I took an impression of the wound. It should be done by now."

I took the victim's heart out of a metal dish and removed the finished impression of the wound. "I've determined that the weapon was thin and long, approximately 8 inches, and it entered at a 40 degree angle. Since the victim's heart was on the right side of the body, not the left as is the normal case, the wound was fatal."

"Excellent work, Julia!" William continued, caught up in my excitement, "This means the attacker was the same height or slightly shorter than the victim, and must have been ... " Facing me, he raised his right hand and then his left hand, turned it into a fist, and made a small stabbing motion, stopping right before my right breast.

"Left handed." We said at the same time.

William dropped his hand and smiled. I felt that lovely, invisible pull towards him again. I felt my own thoracic cavity swell with affection.

"Was there anything else?" I asked hopefully.

"Actually, yes. There is a letter with which I'd like your assistance," William said with respect and tenderness.

"Certainly." I replied fondly.

Back in my office, I unfolded the paper he handed me and read aloud, 'Dear Detective. Can you please ask my father to be home for supper by seven? Mother gets into an awful fit when he comes home late. Also, he says he's going to take me fishing but he keeps having to work. Nobody else's fathers have to work after dinner or on Sundays. If he forgets about us, can you remind him? Sincerely, Bobby.'

I looked up at William, "Mrs. Brackenreid brought her sons to the station house yesterday, didn't she?"

William grimaced, "Yes," and then asked, "Can you help, Julia? You're better at this sort of thing than I am."

I reassured him, "I promise I will discuss it with Inspector Brackenreid at the very first opportunity."

William said seriously, "Thank you Julia. You do so much for me, for the constabulary and for all the people of Toronto. I hope you know how valuable you are ... to all of us."

I nearly swooned...

… and then nearly cursed when Inspector Brackenreid walked in. "How's that case from Station House No 5 coming, Dr. Ogden?" He boomed, "Tell me you have some incriminating evidence I can give to our old pal, Inspector Davis."

I took a step back from William and answered, "Yes, I was just telling Detective Murdoch what I've discovered."

William took a breath, stood up a little taller, and announced, "Indeed, Dr. Ogden has done some fine work, practically solved the case."

"Really?" Brackenreid replied, his tone switching from surprise to delight. "That's bloody brilliant!" Then he mused, "It's too bad we can't get them to investigate those deaths at the racetrack. I know something wasn't right with that business either."

William volunteered "Why don't I inform Inspector Davis of the details?" He shot me look, but I didn't understand.

Brackenreid made it clear he did not like William's idea, "No you don't. I'm the one who's going to lord it over Station House 5." He demanded.

Then, William looked at me expectantly and I understood. I said to the Inspector, "Actually there is something I'd like to discuss with you. Something of a personal nature."

Brackenreid turned to me, concerned, "What's that?"

"Yes, why don't you have a seat." I gestured to my office and followed the inspector to my desk.

William slipped out after sending me a grateful look.

I took a deep breath and resigned myself to having a heart to heart with my superior about finding a better balance between his job and his family. Thankfully, Brackenreid was touched by his son's letter and receptive to my advice. He warmed to my suggestion of 'father-son time' to make his boys feel treasured.

As soon as Brackenreid left, William popped back in. He must have been waiting for the inspector to leave. My heart sunk. I realized I'd have to postpone our dinner engagement but I resolved to keep my composure. There'd be other opportunities to spend time with William.

"How was your conversation with the Inspector?" He asked eagerly.

"It went very well, I think. He really is a good father and cares about his sons very much." Although my words were positive, my tone betrayed my regret.

"Then, what is the matter?" William asked carefully.

I sighed and plunged ahead, "I'm sorry William, but I'm afraid I won't be able to go to dinner with you tonight. Perhaps another day?"

"Oh, that is disappointing." His crestfallen expression matched mine. "May I ask why?" he asked.

I was on the verge of tears, but not wanting to repeat my distraught performance from earlier in the day, I held my voice firm, "I never got a chance to read that article. Things were so busy today, I'm afraid I never found the time."

William said earnestly, "Julia, it doesn't matter how many articles you've read or haven't read. We will have dozens, no hundreds, of interesting conversational subjects from which to choose." Like everything else about him, the man's voice and gaze were steady, "You must know I always enjoy your company."

My left-sided heart beat with joy and I laughed at my own doubt and foolishness. "Of course, you're right. And I'm famished." I put on my hat and coat and took his arm as we left for dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: This is from Ruby Ogden's point of view. This installment inspired by the episode, _The Kissing Bandit_ (season 4, episode 12), and takes place one year prior, in June 1897 at the Woodbine race course/Ontario Jockey Club, along the shores of Lake Ontario in eastern Toronto.

I plunged into Sam's lap and let him pull me close for a long kiss. "A kiss for luck?" I purred.

"I don't need luck. I've got strategy." He boasted.

I kept my tone playful, teasing, "Oh I don't know, seven is a lucky number and this would make it the seventh year in a row Seagram would win the Queen's Plate."

"Don't say it Ruby," he answered sharply, "I may not _need_ good luck, but I don't want any jinxes either."

I tolerated Sam Todd well enough; he was like most of the men I'd known. He was a decent kisser, but was too quick in bed. He claimed to believe in hard work, but cut corners. He projected a wholesome, family man image, but was happy to indulge with a pretty young thing on the side. I'd been his pretty young thing for a few weeks and spending time in his bed, in the hopes of getting proof of how he cut corners at his job. I'd been to Chicago, New Jersey, and New York on the trail of race horse doping. The trail had lead me here, to Mr. Samuel Todd, manager of Seagram Stables, and soon to be the winner of the most exclusive thoroughbred race in Canada. Today, I _would_ get the information I needed to finally go public.

I leaned back, against edge of the desk in the tournament office. I couldn't forget the racetrack and stables were right down the hall - the smell of horse, and all that involved, hung in the air.

I pouted prettily and stroked his ego, "You're right Sam. This is your business and you're best there is."

I leaned in to stroke something else, when a knock sounded on the door. "Mr. Todd, might I have a word with you?"

Sam barked, "No, I'm busy." He kept his eyes glued to my hand moving up his trousers

The door burst open, "I'm Paddy Glynn, from the Toronto Gazette. I'd like to ask you some questions about the race." My hand dropped as fast as my confidence. What on earth was HE doing here? Paddy Glynn was notorious for his pushy reporting. His writing was scandalous tripe and he would stop at nothing for a juicy story. Was he investigating the Ontario Jockey Club too? I nearly drowned in panic, but my pride rescued me. I needed to do some quick thinking.

I slid out of Sam's lap demurely and backed away. Sam walked forward to confront the nosy reporter. "Reporters aren't allowed in here. If you don't leave immediately, I'll press charges for trespassing. Go back to the stands." Sam ordered.

Paddy was about to retort when his gaze fell on me. His mouth dropped open, twisted in puzzlement, then his eyes opened wide, as recognition hit him. It was as if I'd made a crude joke and he'd just caught the punch line. He touched his hat and left, quick as a hungry child scampering away with a stolen pie, fresh off a window sill.

Why had he retreated so easily? The report must have something in mind, but what? Then, I pulled my focus back to Sam and the task at hand. I refused to let Paddy Glynn distract me.

"I need to freshen up. Shall I meet you in your box?" I asked. I removed my hat and started to adjust my hair.. I knew very well Sam would _not_ want me on display in public. It was one thing to have a mistress, and quite another to flaunt her in front of hundreds of race fans.

"Sorry, my sweet. I'll have to meet you at the club dining room for dinner." He replied and pinched my bottom on the way out.

I continued to pat my coiffure until he closed the door. Then, I started riffling through his desk. It didn't take long for me to find his correspondence with Doc Ring, including instructions for injecting the horses. But it wasn't enough. I wanted a sample of the dope, for proof.

Presently, a familiar Newfoundland accent asked from just outside, "Excuse me, I'll looking for a Mr. Samuel Todd, the manager." I cursed silently. This racetrack was attracting investigators like flies to a horse's rump.

I heard the accented voice again, "Toronto Constabulary. I need to speak with Mr. Todd."

I could either stay here and try to hide, or confront this new interference head on. My sister, Julia, often chided me for my impulsivity, but I needed to act. I made my choice and regretted it the instant I stepped out the door.

Sam had just come down the steps and was glowering at the constable whose back was to me. Damn, I should have stayed in the office.

"I'm Samuel Todd. Who's asking?"

From behind, I heard the courteous introduction. "Constable Crabtree, of the Toronto Constabulary. I need to ask you some questions, Mr. Todd. Could you please tell me your whereabouts on the night before last?"

Sam frowned, but I smiled. I could imagine the calculations running through his mind. I knew he'd try to avoid explaining what he had been doing, and with whom, for that period of time.

He settled on evasion. "You'll have to excuse me, Constable. I don't have time right now." Sam said proudly.

Crabtree became more stern, zeroing in, like a bird of prey, "I can either take your statement here and now or down at the station later." I stayed still and quiet, hoping that the hawk would stay focused on the prey before him and not the little mouse peeking out of her hole.

Sam didn't back down. "I don't think you understand lad. I'm Samuel Todd, manager of Seagram Stables. Surely Inspector Davis has explained things to you."

Crabtree dropped his hawkishness and moved into cheeky politeness, "Ah well, I'm afraid I don't report to Inspector Davis. You see, I'm at Station House No 4, under Inspector Brackenreid. The crime in question took place in our precinct." Crabtree eagerly produced his pencil and notepad.

This conversation had taken a turn towards a topic I did NOT want in the open. Not yet. Not until I got all the evidence I needed. I sighed inwardly, so much for playing the mouse.

I stepped forward so both men could see me. Crabtree looked up from his notepad. He asked, "Ruby Ogden?" Recognition hit him like man who'd asked for a glass of water, but had been given a shot of gin instead.

I sighed dramatically, "Hello, Constable Crabtree."

Sam turned to me, suspicious, "What's going on here?"

Again, I had to think fast. I would not have Crabtree ruining my investigation. I pushed aside my initial fear that the constabulary would ask questions about horse doping. It wasn't illegal. A crime must have occurred two days ago and Sam was a suspect. Whatever the concern, it would have to wait. I resolved not to let Crabtree's blundering spoil my work, or blow my cover.

I offered, "George and I used to know each other socially. It was just a bit of fun, when we were younger." I winked at Crabtree and prayed that he wasn't at naive as he looked.

Crabtree just looked at me, blinking.

Sam puffed himself up and took advantage of Crabtree's silence, "As I said, I can't talk right now. The race is about the start. Perhaps later." Sam had swallowed my story, but would Crabtree play along? Sam left the room, pushing past the constable.

Crabtree opened his mouth to protest and I pressed my hands together in prayer. I shot him a warning grimace, as if he was about to drop a sleeping baby.

The constable cocked his head to one side. He'd understood my plea, but wasn't sure how to act on it. No surprise there; constables were about as subtle as a hammer. I'd have to make my meaning obvious.

I sauntered forward, taking extra care to swish my hips, following Sam. I turned back to Crabtree, "Mr. Todd is a very important man and this is a very important event, Constable. Why don't you just come back later, after the race?" I blew him a kiss and winked. If anyone was watching me, I intended them to think me a flirtatious hussy, not a dogged journalist.

Crabtree muttered, "I'll … ah, later then…" Thankfully, the hawk had swallowed the bait from the mouse.

I moved down the hall, to the lobby that led to the racetrack. The crowd had mostly filtered out of the area and had moved into the stands to watch the race. The sound of excited conversation mixed with the creaking of wooden rafters. Sam was nowhere in sight. Now would be the best time to make my search for the dope.

As soon as I slipped into the stables, Paddy Glynn intercepted me. His obnoxious presence hit me as hard as the stench of manure.

He crooned, "Ruby Ogden, it's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I must compliment you on the fine piece you wrote on Harry Houdini. Really, it was fascinating reading." He dripped charm, like a wolf drooling over a hen house.

I abandoned the facade of a empty-headed strumpet. "What do you want, Mr. Glynn?" I whispered sternly.

He answered, his voice equally low, "Miss Ogden, I imagine we're after the same thing. A scoop."

I scowled at him, "You stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours." I pushed past him and began searching stables.

As I moved down the stalls, I caught sight of two grooms, but they were far away, leaning out the front gate and focused on the track. I stepped across the hay scattered on the floor and began looking about. I passed by the tack room and the grooming area into the the workroom reserved for the horse surgeons. I was focused, like a smoker searching for his first cigarette of the day.

I heard the bugle calling the horses to the starting line and knew I didn't have much time.

Paddy Glynn sidled up to me. "Miss Ogden, the underbelly of the Ontario Jockey Club is my beat. I'd made it clear to the reporters in town that this is my story to publish." He leaned against a wooden post, coolly watching me open and closing cupboards.

Without pausing my search, I answered proudly, "Mr. Glynn, I started my investigation months ago at the Winter Tracks in New Jersey. I've worked too long to let some dandy such as yourself steal my story and take all the credit. I welcome your interest in the Jockey Club as much as a goat would desire the attention of a python." I shifted to look through some crates lining the walls.

The bell for the start sounded and the noise of the crowd roiled and overflowed. Last year the race had been won in two minutes and nineteen seconds. My pulse beat faster; I had to be quick.

He stepped closer, "Call me Paddy. Perhaps we can help each other? Share the credit?"

I glanced up into the bright hazel eyes behind his round spectacles. Something in his face had changed. He was no longer the hungry wolf and now looked more like a faithful golden retriever. Something inside me, a combination of desperation and intuition, told me to trust him. And to Hell with it, I was due for a bit of luck.

"Fine." I agreed returning my attention to my search. "I'm looking for a green glass vial, no larger than your hand. It should contain the dope that Seagram has been injecting into his thoroughbreds."

I heard him move off to another stall, rummaging around.

The cheering came to a crescendo as the horses crossed the finish line. The stable hands and jockeys would be back any second. There wasn't anymore time.

I hissed, "Paddy, we need to leave, _now_!" I dashed towards the side exit and pulled the door open.

Then, I heard him call out, "You mean these green glass vials? The ones with labels that say ' _Doc Ring's patented prescription for equine stimulation_?' There are about a dozen in here."

With no time to answer, I dashed out the side door to the yard and froze on the threshold. Several men were approaching, including one of Sam's trainers. I turned to look back inside and Paddy sprang up next to me.

An idea seized me and I acted on it. I shoved Paddy away and shouted, "Leave me alone you lecherous rat!" To my ears, I sounded more like a petulant child than an accosted woman, but it would have to do.

Then, I whispered sharply, "Kiss me, like you mean it."

Paddy looked into my eyes, understanding dawning, then he kissed me. He knew exactly what to do. One arm went around my waist and the other cupped the back of my head. He pulled me close and bent me back slightly. His lips were firm and demanding. I was caught in a delicious vice, like piece of flotsam being sucked into a maelstrom of desire. What a kiss!

My hand flew up and slapped him hard. He released me with a lascivious grin. If he was surprised at my reaction, he hid it very well. Yes, Paddy was playing his part a little too well.

I cried out in distress, "You horrible beast! How dare you!" Then, just loud enough for him to hear, I said, "Meet me at the city morgue."

I kicked him in the shin for good measure before running around the back of the stables, straight into Sam Todd. I turned back to see Paddy sprinting away. No doubt Sam saw him too.

Sam narrowed his eyes and studied me, "I think you and I should have a little talk- in private." He grabbed me by the arms. He was trying to frighten me; I told myself it wasn't working.

I dangled a weak distraction, "Did I hear correctly? Your Ferdinand won? Congratulations!"

He didn't bite, "What were you doing with that reporter? In the stables?" Sam glowered at me, and yanked me close. My thin muslin sleeves were no protection against his rough grip. "You wouldn't do anything stupid Ruby, would you?" He demanded.

I told myself again that he wasn't going to frighten me. I chanted this thought in my head, but his voice broke through, "because if you dare …"

"Mr Todd! I must ask you to unhand Miss Ogden." Crabtree's distinct lilt sang out loud and clear. Relief flooded me like a woman who had regretted sleeping with her beau and just gotten her monthlies.

"Thank you, Constable Crabtree," I sighed as Sam let me go. I straightened up, determined to show Sam that he hadn't bothered me. I beamed up at Crabtree.

Crabtree dropped his voice and said to me softly, "Is everything alright, Miss Ogden?"

My heart nearly melted at his kind tone. "Yes, I'm fine." I replied.

Sam huffed and turned to go, but Crabtree raised his voice again and commanded, "I believe you still need to answer my questions, Mr. Todd."

Sam froze but didn't turn around or face us.

Crabtree asked firmly, "Where were you the night before last, Mr. Todd? The race is over. Like I said before, we can talk here or down at the station."

Sam slowly turned back around and stared hard at Crabtree. "I was at the Jockey Club, with Ruby." His words reverberated with anger, but to me, it sounded like thunder threatening to knock down a house.

The constable turned to me, he raised his dark eyebrows, "Is that so?"

"I met Mr. Todd at the club, at 10 o'clock that night, yes. Before that he was in a meeting with eight other stable managers, colluding as to who would win which races this year. I can give you the names of all who were present if you like."

Sam's temper flared, "How could _you_? You are nothing but an emptied-headed floozy!"

I ignored Sam and turned back to my knight, if not in shining armor, then in a trim black uniform. I asked politely, "Constable, will you escort me to the station? I'd be happy to give you my full statement there."

In the carriage, I thanked Crabtree again. I offered to give him all the information I had on Mr. Todd's movements right then and there if he would drop me off at the city morgue. Apparently Sam was a suspect in a murder. I doubted that Sam would thank me for providing him with an alibi, considering it would also implicate him in a major racing scandal.

On the ride to the rendezvous, I told myself not to get my hopes up about Paddy. I was a realist. I knew that there was a good chance the reporter would slink off with the evidence I'd worked so long for and had taken so many risks to get my hands on.

When I saw Paddy leaning casually against the wall of the Toronto City Morgue, I stopped being realistic and behaved like a puppy who sees her master bring out a rubber ball.

I rushed out of the carriage and pounced on Paddy. "You have it? The vial from the stables?"

"Miss Ogden, how nice to see you again." He answered coyly and produced the precious green glass bottle from his pocket.

I whooped with joy and dragged him inside the building. "Please, we're partners now. You must call me Ruby."

Paddy asked, "So tell me, partner, how does this green bottle figure in with the race fixing? I know the major players in the Jockey Club have agreed to let Seagram win the Queen's Plate in exchange for letting them have other races, but what's that got to do with the races in New Jersey?"

His questions pulled my attention like a frog asking for kiss. It went against my nature to share my hard won information with him. However, he had kept good faith and met me with the smuggled evidence.

I took a deep breath and answered, "Yes, Seagram will do whatever it takes to keep the title of Queen's Plate to himself. They use injections to stimulate their horses at prearranged races. The other stables get their turns, but only at agreed races. The dope comes from Doc Ring in New Jersey. It won't be long now before horse races all over the world are tainted with dope." I had more information concerning Seagram's ties to Inspector Davis, but it was Paddy's turn to share what he knew. "What else have you learned?" I asked.

He understood, "Tit for tat, ehh?" He showed me that intense smile. I remembered how his mouth had fit so nicely on mine, how his arms had held me securely, and how his eyes sparked with interested every time he looked at me. I wondered what it would be like to kiss him without any pretenses.

He said, "I have information that Inspector Davis is being bribed by the Jockey Club to look the other way. None of the constables from Station House No. 5 will go anywhere near the Woodbine racetrack, not even to investigate unrelated, legitimate crimes."

I agreed, "Yes, there was that case last year at Woodbine when two men were killed by a crazed horse. The constabulary called it an accident, but I suspect it was an overstimulated animal with too much dope in his system. There was a similar case in Newmarket where a doped thoroughbred, after winning a race, dashed madly into a stone wall and killed itself."

Paddy let that sink in, then marvelled, "The animal was so high that it ran into a stone wall with enough power to kill itself..."

We walked inside. The morgue was well lit and quiet. The unique smells of rubbing alcohol and formaldehyde drifted in the air. My sister was looking at something under a microscope and looked up as we came inside.

"Hello, Ruby." She stood to greet me.

I exclaimed, "Jules, I have it! The doping sample that Seagram's been using on his thoroughbreds."

Her questioning look at the man on whose arm I was tugging, tempered my enthusiasm. I paused and made introductions, "Mr. Glynn, may I present my sister, Dr. Julia Ogden, the Toronto City Coroner." Then to Julia I explained, "Mr. Glynn is from the Gazette. We're working together."

Julia looked at me skeptically, "An independent journalist, like you? Working with someone else?" But she was smiling, so I dismissed her teasing.

I took the vial from Paddy and handed it to Julia. "Please, can you compare this to the other sample I gave you?" I asked her.

She answered, "You're lucky I don't have any pressing cases right now." Julia took the small bottle from my hand and crossed the room to a counter with some test tubes.

I followed closely, wanting to observe her analysis. I expected Paddy to join us, but he stayed at the door.

Julia unscrewed the lid and sniffed. "Light floral scent." Next, she put a drop on her finger and dabbed it on her lips. "Numbs the lips immediately," Then she tasted it, "A distinct carbonic bite …. hmmm." She close the cap and said, "I'll need to do some more tests to confirm this, but it appears highly likely that the contents are identical to the other sample you gave me - nitroglycerin, cocaine, carbolic acid, and rose water."

I grinned and embraced my sister, "Thank you so much, Jules! I could never have gotten this level of scientific information without you." I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

She smiled back and then shot a questioning glance at Paddy, "So Ruby, why are you really working with him?"

I shrugged, "Everyone could use a little help now and then..." I could see my answer didn't satisfy her so I added with a wink, "... or maybe he's the best kisser I've ever come across, and that's saying something."

I walked back to Paddy and took his arm, "Come. Let's go write an exposé."

As we exited the building, Paddy observed, "You're just full of kisses, aren't you Ruby?"

I narrowed my eyes at him, "Kissing is useful tool. Like gun powder, a little bit, targeted accurately, can be quite effective. A lot can be explosive. However you must be careful. Even a moderate amount, used imprudently, might get you into big trouble."

Paddy nodded, considering my words, or maybe he was just thinking about kissing.


	3. Chapter 3

This final installment is from Emily Grace's point of view. Setting: 1899/ right before season 5 - the one year out of eleven that Seagram Stables didn't win the horse race.

I put down the medical journal and sighed at my empty waiting room. The furious quiet was eroding my optimism. I had done the calculations and, at this rate, unless I got some more paying clients, I would only be able to keep my private practice going for another month. Nonetheless, my spirit was buoyed by the anticipation of a good scientific lecture, in even better company.

I peered outside the window before leaving. Jerome Bradley, my former fiance, had a habit of pouncing on me, but he was nowhere in sight. I put on my hat and jacket, then locked up.

All week I'd been looking forward to meeting Julia Ogden for the lecture and I wasn't about to let Jerome interfere. It'd be just like him. Ironically, I owed much of my friendship with Julia to Jerome. I'd started spending more time with her to quench his jealousy. Leaving Jerome had been the right thing to do, but my heart was still raw.

Minutes later, when I saw Julia, poised and professional at the entrance of the lecture hall, my confidence rose to mirror hers. I greeted her with a smile. She asked after my work and I told her of my struggles to attract clients. Talking with my friend was just what I needed, like drinking a warm cup of cocoa after a long walk in the cold.

She reassured me, "Remember, even for male doctors, earning patients to trust can be asking quite a lot."

I confessed. "Sometimes I get tired of having to put on a fresh smile, even when I feel down; to stay polite and professional when people are demanding and rude; to prove myself over and over to skeptical clients. It is so draining."

She sighed and nodded in understanding, "Yes, I used to feel that way. It helped quite a bit when I started working as a coroner."

I laughed, "What, because none of your patients could complain?"

"Yes, there is that," she smiled and then continued more seriously, "but equally important are the people I work with, the constables and the detectives. They respect and appreciate me, especially the men at Station House No 4. Sometimes _who_ you work with is just as important as _what_ work you do. Of course, not everyone is gracious and kind, but at least they are all civil. And some in particular are … well... wonderful." She sighed sadly, caught herself, and then added hastily, "and my husband is supportive of my career, for which I am most grateful." Her words rang false and I was about to ask her more, when the chime sounded, announcing the start of the lecture.

We listened to Dr. T. D. Crothers, professor at the New York School of Clinical Medicine, give a lecture on the medicinal benefits and risks of neuroses from alcohol, opium, chloral, cocaine and other narcotics. Like two bright yellow dandelions sprouting in a tidy green lawn, we were the only women in the audience.

The next day passed with only one consultation and the woman offered a chicken as payment. I was desperate enough to actually consider it.

As usual, I peered out the window, making sure that Jerome wasn't lurking on the street. The sun was about to set, but there was enough light to see outside. The street was empty, except for a small man in a bowler hat entering the horse surgeon's office across the street. Satisfied that my ex-fiance wouldn't ambush me, I finished locking up and left the office.

I walked down the street a few paces before I heard a crash followed by horrible, strangling sound. I whipped around to see a bald man in shirt sleeves holding onto his chest and gasping for air. It was Dr. Green, the horse surgeon from the office across the street. He fell out of the doorway and sank to his knees shouting, "HELP!"

I rushed to his side. I kept calm and noted his symptoms - chest pain, rapid breathing, irregular heartbeat, and nausea. (Thankfully, I avoided the vomit.) The man looked around wildly, "Good lord, the horses are everywhere. It's a stampede! The horses, the horses will kill us all!" Also, I noted, hallucination.

People were gathering around the stricken man and a woman shouted, "Someone, get a doctor!"

"I _am_ a doctor!" I replied fiercely.

I knew what to do. I raced to my office, but getting the medicine took longer than I'd hoped. By the time I got back Dr Green, now surrounded by a small crowd, was lying motionless in the street. I felt for a pulse - nothing. The nitroglycerin wouldn't do him any good now.

People were murmuring and shaking their heads. Their skeptical curiosity mingled with my failed gallantry and threatened to spill over into rebuke when something unexpected caught my attention. I examined the dead man more closely. He was warm to the touch, extremely warm. Also, his pupils were dilated. Thinking back to the lecture I'd just attended, I realized that this had not been a normal heart attack.

A constable appeared, shouting directions, "Stand back, stand back." Then seeing me kneeling next to the dead man, he demanded, "What's going on here?"

I looked around for the small man in the brown plaid suit who had entered Dr. Green's office mere minutes before. I spotted him lingering suspiciously on the periphery of the crowd.

I stood and spoke softly to the constable, "I suspect that man in the brown suit has something to do with this man's death." With a nod, I indicated the suspicious man.

My subtlety was lost on the constable as he shouted, "You there, in the bowler hat, come here." His words had the opposite effect and the suspect bolted.

The constable made no attempt to chase the runaway but turned back to me. He eyed me curiously, "And who might you be?" He boomed, as if he had to make up for my previous lack of volume.

I introduced myself and explained the situation. He scoffed when I told him I was a physician, "I guess anyone can call themselves a doctor these days." He added patronizingly, "You just wait here until the detective comes. We'll see what he says about this mess."

I sat down on a bench to wait while the constable interviewed some of the bystanders and went inside Dr. Green's office to look around. Over an hour later, a barrel-shaped man with bold mustache arrived in a carriage. It was dusk now and my stomach was rumbling, telling me it expected dinner.

"What you got constable?" the mustached detective asked.

"The deceased is a Dr. Edward Green, horse surgeon for the Ontario Jockey Club. This is his office. He collapsed of a heart attack about an hour ago. Witnesses say this clever little lady tried to help him. She thinks she saw a suspicious man hanging around.. She also claims to be a doctor." He spoke loudly and haltingly, like motor car sputtering to life.

"Well, they say even pigs can be clever, that doesn't mean they can be doctors." The detective replied and laughed at his words.

I was boiling with indignation, but determined to stay professional. I recounted calmly what I'd witnessed. The detective didn't seem to be listening to what I said. He merely took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, twice.

I tried to capture his attention, "Detective, from the man's behavior and symptoms shortly before his death, I suspect the victim died of an atypical heart attack, probably induced by a strong stimulant."

He said nothing, merely replaced his handkerchief in his pocket.

I tapped down the urge to scream or cry, or both.

Then, a young constable with a blotched complexion came out of Dr. Green's office and handed the detective a green glass vial.

The detective took the small bottle and read the label. "Look like some kind of horse medicine; it's got cocaine and some other stuff in it." He wrinkled his brow and then proclaimed, "Yup, I'd say the victim had a heart attack, and it was caused by taking too much this here cocaine concoction. We're all done here. Case closed."

I continued, "Wait, you can't determine the cause of death until a post mortem is performed. _And_ even if the heart attack was caused by an overdose of that drug, you don't know if it was self-administered."

The detective looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

I stamped my foot and declared, "He might have been poisoned!"

He shook his head wearily, "Nah. I'm sure it was an accident. It wouldn't be the first time some poor bugger took too much cocaine and blew his heart out. I wouldn't worry your pretty little head over it."

I was stunned. My testimony had been dismissed and there would be no investigation - just like that. Stubborn pride took root and I knew I could not give up.

I thought about going to find Julia. After all, she was the city coroner. Then I realized I would waste precious time crisscrossing the city to find my friend. Who else could I turn to? The scene needed to be investigated properly and quickly, before evidence was lost. Julia's gratitude for the people with whom she worked rose to my mind. I knew where to go.

I hailed a carriage and told the driver to take me across town, to Station House No 4.

It was full dark when I arrived at the reassuring, brick building. As luck would have it, I entered the station and found a dark-haired constable reading, what looked like a novel, behind a desk.

"Excuse me. I'd like to report a crime, a murder, I suspect." I said to the constable.

He stood up, suddenly alert. "Of course, Miss." He eagerly pulled out a notepad and a pencil. "And what's your name?" He spoke with a quaint Newfoundland accent.

"I am Dr. Emily Grace." I said.

"Oh really? Dr. Grace you say?" He was surprised.

Not this _again._ I was so sick and tired of people questioning my credentials. What could I possibly say to this ignorant swine to convince him to take me seriously?

Then he added, "I think Dr. Ogden mentioned you. Yes, she was talking about you with the Inspector, yesterday."

My protests died on my lips and I breathed, "Oh. Yes, Dr. Ogden is a friend and colleague of mine."

He smiled at me, "Right this way, Dr. Grace. You're lucky Detective Murdoch is still in his office. You can give him your information." He led the way through to a cluttered office. Several scales and measuring equipment lay on the large table, as well as various coils of rope.

A conservatively dressed, middle-aged man looked up from the piece of rope he was weighing. "Yes, Crabtree, what have you?"

The constable introduced me and I relayed my information to the detective. Constable Crabtree took careful notes and Detective Murdoch listened intently, occasionally asking me questions to clarify a point.

"How well did you know the dead man? What can you tell us about him?" He asked.

"We'd spoken a few times, just in passing. We occasionally greeted each other, as we went to and from work. His office is directly across the street from mine. He works as an animal doctor, mostly a horse surgeon, and provides care for many thoroughbreds at the Ontario Jockey Club. He was successful enough that he recently took on an apprentice."

Constable Crabtree turned to the detective, "Sir, that area is Station House No. 5's jurisdiction. I wonder why a local constable wasn't involved."

I stammered, "Oh, well … a constable arrived shortly after the man died, and a detective." The two men eyed me suspiciously.

Detective Murdoch asked me, his tone carefully neutral, "Then why did you feel the need to come across town to make a report to us?"

I explained how the constables had dismissed my assessment and pronounced the death an accidental overdose with no further investigation. I finished, "There needs to be a post mortem exam of the body and a proper investigation."

Crabtree said tentatively, "Sir, didn't Ruby Ogden run an exposé about doping in horse races?"

Murdoch nodded, "Yes, I remember that the article accused certain constables of taking bribes - Station House No 5, I believe. But at the time, there was no proof." He paused. I could almost see the wheels of thought turning in his mind. "We'd better talk to Inspector Brackenreid about this before we act. There could be bigger implications to this case than just one suspicious death."

After talking to the inspector on the telephone, Murdoch looked pleased, "Inspector Brackenreid agrees we should investigate, and quickly. In fact, he was rather giddy at the opportunity to catch Station House No. 5 in some wrongdoing." He continued, "Thank you for coming forward Dr. Grace. We may need you to answer some further questions later." I could tell his gratitude and respect was genuine. Julia had been right, these were a different breed of men than Jerome and the barrel-shaped detective from Station No. 5. These people saw me as a thinking professional, not just a frivolous swish of skirts.

A day passed and I was surprised, and even disappointed, that I didn't hear anything more from the constabulary. So I was glad when Julia came by later the next day and asked me to lunch.

I couldn't wait to ask about the case. "Did you determine the cause of Dr. Green's death? Was it a cardiac arrest due to cocaine?"

Julia answered, "I am afraid I can't disclose information in an ongoing case," but her broad smile and twinkling eyes told me I'd been right.

She continued, "I _can_ tell you that Detective Murdoch spoke highly of you. Also, Inspector Brackenreid was positively gloating over the information you provided. Finding ways to make Station House No 5 look bad makes him nearly as happy as showing a new painting."

I said conspiratorially, "I must admit, I see now why you enjoy your job."

Julia frowned, "Actually, I'm seriously considering leaving my position." My shocked expression made her hurry to explain, "It's for personal reasons, but when I resign, I thought I might lessen the blow by offering to train a highly recommended replacement."

I didn't know what to say. I was sad to hear Julia was having personal problems and it was clear she didn't want to discuss them. "Is there anything I can do? To help?"

"As a matter of fact, I was going to suggest you for the position," she added politely, "if you are interested."

"I don't know," I answered cautiously. I had dreamed of having my own practice and was hesitant to give up my independence. On the other hand, the reality of long, empty hours and unreliable payment was not measuring up to my expectations. "Let me think about it."

The following day, my office again lacked any patients. By the afternoon, I had made up my mind to inquire about the position as city coroner. I decided it would be worth it to trade the vagaries of independence for steady, meaningful work.

I was getting ready to leave, perhaps for the last time, when a man came to the door and slipped inside. I immediately recognized the small man as the person I'd accused of involvement in Dr. Green's death.

He looked me up and down hungrily, like a fox eyeing a hen, "Well, well, well. I'd like a word with you."

Fear crept over me and I blustered, "I'm afraid the office is closed for the day." I took a step back, positioning myself behind a chair.

My fear fed his bravado, "Don't be like that. I only wanna talk." He was lying and we both knew it.

I gripped the back of a large arm chair, using it as a shield. I was about to bolt for the door, but the sudden sight of a knife in his hand stilled my steps. My mind raced to find a way out. If I could distract the man, I might be able to escape.

I tried defiance, "You won't get away with any of this. The constabulary already suspects you for murdering Dr. Green."

He scowled, "It wasn't no murder, just an accident. I was proving a point, wasn't I?" He stepped one way and I moved the other, rotating around the chair.

I continued my bluff, hoping to provoke him into making a mistake, "How could giving a man a dose of cocaine intended for a horse be an accident?"

"That's just it. Wasn't no cocaine in them injections. After the second time my horse lost, I had em tested, even tasted some myself. That dope was just plain water. That's why my horses been giving up races they was supposed to win - races and good prize money. Because of him, and his phoney water dope, Mr. Seagram done lost the Queen's Plate for the first time in nine years and I done lost my job!"

I angled for the hallway that led to the side door. "But why would you inject him with what you believed was water?" I had to keep him talking.

"He said the dope was the real deal, but I knew he was lying. I told you, I was provin' a point!" He shouted.

I took my chance and made a dash for the hall. He was too quick and cut me off. "Come back here, girl!"

I dodged into my consultation room and slammed the door. "Please, leave me alone." I begged, pressing my back into the door to keep it closed.

"Stupid bitch." He pounded on the door and I felt the boards shudder against my back. "You think you're so smart, in your fancy office, playing doctor. You're nothing and I'm not gonna let an uppity girl like you send me to the gallows."

I grabbed a chair and wedged it against the door, reinforcing it. The door shuddered with his blows, but words hammered me more. I felt myself slip into the old, familiar pattern of defensiveness with Jerome, reflexively soothing. "I'm sorry. Please. I was just trying to help Dr. Green. I didn't mean any harm. Perhaps if you explained to the constables that it was just an accident, it'll be alright."

He belittled me,"You lying, filthy cow. You're the one who went across town to snitch on me." He moved away and the sounds of breaking glass chilled me.

Desperate, I looked around the room for something with which to defend myself. There were my files, medical journals, quills, ink, paper, examination instruments, and shelves with various medicines.

I considered, What would Jerome want to hear? I called out, "You are right. I'm just a witless woman. What if I said I'd made a mistake? Everyone knows that women have feeble, frivolous minds."

The man's voice came from farther away, "That mighta worked, if it were just between me and the boys at number five. They know me. I delivered their payments from the club. But those boys at number four think their detective walks and water and their uniforms are spun from pure righteousness."

Another crash from outside emboldened me. I grabbed a bottle from the shelf, uncorked the stopper and took my chance. I removed the chair from the door and rushed into the hall. Unfortunately, my attacker was fast on my heels, knife in hand. "Come back here!" He shouted.

Then, he grabbed me and slashed. I twisted away, but not before the blade cut into my arm. Pain and rage welled up inside me. I was tired of being treated like a worthless animal. I threw the bottle of undiluted carbolic acid on his face. His scream of pain fueled my determination. I raced to the side door and onto the street.

"Help me!" I called out.

From across the street, just outside Dr. Green's office, I saw a constable mounting a bicycle. I called out again, "Help!"

Relief flooded me as as I recognized Constable Crabtree's fresh face. He rushed to my side, "Dr. Grace? What happened?"

I saw my attacker emerge from my office, "Stop him!" I yelled and pointed.

The small man bolted, but Crabtree tackled him. The constable reached into his coat, pulled out a whistle and blew. The shrill sound quickly summoned another constable and soon my attacker was hauled away.

My words tumbled out, "That's the man I saw before, the one at the office. He said Dr. Green cost him his job with the race horses; he killed him to prove a point." My explanation was as rumpled as my hair and clothes.

My attacker spat and struggled, "You can die too, filthy bitch!" But the constables held him firmly.

I added, breathlessly, "Oh, and he's been delivering bribes to some of the men at Station House No 5. That's why they looked the other way when I identified him at the scene of the crime."

After securing the man, Crabtree told the other constable, "Send for Detective Murdoch. Also, get this man's fingermarks to compare with the one we found on the syringe at the scene." Then Crabtree came over to me, eyeing my bleeding arm, "Dr. Grace, you're injured." The worry was plain on his face.

I swallowed and nodded, the pain was bad, but bearable. "Come," I told him, "I've some bandages in my office." He wrapped my arm with a musician's touch, sensitive, but also firm.

He said, "You're amazing Dr. Grace. Not many people would have the presence of mind to escape an assault like that, let alone get a confession." Crabtree's words eased my spirit as the bandage eased the flow of blood from my wound.

I smiled up into his warm brown eyes. I decided then that I would be glad to take the coroner's job if it meant getting to work with people like Constable Crabtree.

Back on the street, Detective Murdoch greeted us. Even after pedaling across town, the detective was as composed as I was disheveled. The man practically wore a halo of decorum.

"Dr. Grace? What happened?" Murdoch asked.

As I carefully summarized what my assailant had said, the detective once again focused on the details that didn't add up. "When he told you the death was an accident, that he believed the injection was harmless, just water, do you think he was telling the truth?" He asked me.

I thought about it and answered, "Yes. He truly thought those bottles held only water, not cocaine."

Crabtree added, "And, Sir, why would he lie?"

Detective Murdoch's eyes narrowed and I imagined his mind at work, connecting the information and finding the gaps. He said, "We'll need to test the contents of those vials." The detective turned to his assistant, "George, please collect all the bottles labeled as the cocaine injection and have them delivered to Dr. Ogden for analysis. Be sure to preserve any fingermarks."

"Detective," I interjected, "You don't need to have the contents tested in the morgue. We can check them all here, right now."

Crabtree asked "Really? How?" He looked impressed and curious at the same time.

"Cocaine is a stimulant, but it is also an analgesic. It is often used in dental procedures to dull pain." I explained. "Assuming the dosage is concentrated, and it should be if it is strong enough to affect a thoroughbred, placing a drop on your tongue or lips should have an immediate and obvious numbing effect."

"Alright," Murdoch agreed, "let's test our hypothesis."

Between the three of us, we checked all the bottles of dope. Sure enough, pressing a drop to one's lips proved that most did contain the drug. However, four of the bottles, ones set aside in a small box, contained a clear liquid that did not have the numbing effect.

The detective thought out loud, "Who had else access to these bottles? And, if they really do contain only water, why replace the contents with something so benign?"

"Wait," Crabtree said and took out his notebook. As he flipped through pages, he mashed his lips together and mumbled, "That stuff really works; I can't feel my face." He found what he was looking for and nodded, "Ah yes. Dr. Green had an apprentice. When I interviewed him at his home, I saw stacks of pamphlets from the Toronto Humane Society."

Murdoch praised his assistant, "Excellent observations, George. Please, bring in the apprentice for questioning." The detective once again got that far-off gaze, envisioning how the pieces of the puzzle fit together.

"Right away, sir," Crabtree said to the detective. Then he smiled at me, touched his hat, and bid me farewell. "I look forward to working with you again Dr. Grace."

"Oh?" I asked, puzzled.

A smile was also on Detective Murdoch's face, "Yes, I sincerely hope we will see you again soon, but under more pleasant circumstances."

The next day, three things happened. First, Dr. Green's apprentice was confronted with the presence of his fingermarks on the vials that had been substituted with water and the man confessed to sabotaging the horse doping. (His defense was that he was preventing cruelty to animals.) Second, my attacker was formally charged with manslaughter and assault instead of murder, in exchange for testifying about giving bribes to constables at Station House No.5. Lastly, I was hired as the new Toronto City Coroner.


End file.
